


Mayonnaise, Starbucks and Moby Dick

by lionofsounis



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Rated T for language, SILLINESS!!!, Slightly crack, everything else about it is extremely tame, literally just fluff and silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 10:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionofsounis/pseuds/lionofsounis
Summary: (Mix of book/tv-verse, established but new-ish relationship.)Summary:A distraught girl ducks into the shop moments before closing. Aziraphale is compelled to help her because he's Aziraphale, Crowley is exasperated about it because he's Crowley. Frivolous miracles and petty banter ensue.Alternate summary:Crowley invented Miracle Whip and Frappuccinos, Aziraphale does not know what gift cards are, and God is a wingwoman.





	Mayonnaise, Starbucks and Moby Dick

**Author's Note:**

> kas;fjldakfsjalf this is self indulgent and silly and pretty crack-y. it's half me working out their voices, half me wanting to try writing fic from an outsider POV, half inspired by this tumblr post (https://pinkpiggy93.tumblr.com/post/187077345427/the-angel-and-the-demon-among-us-part-1-head) and 100% bad at math. it was meant to be a short drabble but it turns out i love banter so here we are 5000 words later! anyway, i had fun writing it and i hope you enjoy.

Aziraphale was moments away from closing the shop when it happened.

Of course to be fair, Aziraphale was always moments away from closing the shop, and Crowley's current presence in the shop was not a good enough reason to do so, considering Crowley was often present in the shop, but all of this was besides the point. The point was, Aziraphale was about to close up shop.

And then the little bell that hung over his door rang,* and he twitched up in surprise. "Now who could that --" he trailed off, moving towards the door to discourage whoever it was. Crowley followed, blathering something about how the angel had no business being surprised, it was perfectly normal to have customers at twelve in the afternoon, this was no way to run a business, and they were going for lunch anyway so never mind whoever it was, but Aziraphale ignored him.

*He didn't need it, of course; he could sense when someone entered, but he liked the idea of a little bell.

The tinkle of the bell was still echoing in the air when they rounded a shelf and saw the girl. Well, a young woman really, but barely more than a girl. She had closed the door with a rush, and whirled around, looking frantic.

"I'm afraid that I was just about to close." Aziraphale began. "If you could just--"

"I'm sorry!" The girl was nearly hysterical. Aziraphale started backward in concern and alarm. "I'm so sorry, it's just-- can I just stay for ten minutes? Five? I'm so sorry to bother you I just need to hide I'm so sorry--"

***

The man held up a hand and Dot exhaled noisily. It was strange, she thought, how she suddenly felt much better. Usually it took a lot more deep breaths for her to calm down.

For the first time, she took a good look at the two men before her. The one who'd been talking had white-blond curls and wore an old-fashioned suit in shades of beige, complete with a tartan bowtie. The other was his opposite in every way: rail-thin, dressed in black skinny jeans, snakeskin shoes, something that could be called a tie only for lack of a better word, and he was wearing sunglasses indoors.

His eyebrows were traveling rapidly up to his unnatural-looking red hairline. He glanced at her, then at the beige man, who seemed to be ignoring him. "My dear girl," said the beige man, and Dot thought absently that she ought to be unnerved by a significantly older man she'd never met calling her that, but somehow she wasn't. "Do catch your breath," he continued. "It's no trouble at all. What seems to be the problem?"

Her anxiety started ratcheting back up and she wrung her hands. "Oh! Er. Well, I don't know, it might sound stupid but-- well I was walking to the bus stop and this man caught up to me and starting talking to me and he wouldn't leave me alone, and well. I don't know, really, he just scared me is all. He wouldn't leave me alone," she said again, helplessly. It suddenly felt silly saying it out loud. She'd panicked just because a man had spoken to her? Perhaps she was overreacting, and she'd disturbed someone else's plans because of it. Her anxiety ticked upwards another notch.

But the two men didn't seem put out by her. Or at least, the beige one didn't. The skinny one had crossed quickly to the door and was peering around the blind. Even with his back to her, Dot could see one finger tilting his sunglasses down.

"Oh dear," said the beige one. "That does sound quite upsetting. You stay as long as you need, dear." At this, a wordless and very short conversation seemed to pass between the two men, but Dot was in no state to decipher it. Besides her panic, she was also thrown by how strange the skinny man's eyes looked in the bookshop's light. The beige man was still looking at her kindly though. "What's your name, child?"

"Uh, Dorothy. Most people call me Dot," she said.

"What a lovely name," the man said, and Dot got the distinct impression that he meant it. "Like Dorothy Parker," he added, with a beaming smile. "Why don't you have a seat?" He motioned to a chair at the end of a long shelf that Dot hadn't noticed before.

"This man bothering you," the skinny man spoke for the first time, his voice gruff and conversational all at once, "what's he look like?"

Dot frowned. Everything had happened so quickly it was hard to say. "Uh, well. He had brown hair, I think? Quite dark brown. No beard or anything. Um…" she wracked her brain. "He was white?"

The man at the door snorted for some reason, then said, "green jacket? Like military green?"

"Yes, yes, I think so."

"Jeans and orange sandshoes? Bag with patches on it?"

Dot's frown deepened. "Yes, actually, how did you--?"

"Whole street's full of people going somewhere," the man explained, "and he's standing on the corner looking stupid. Like he's lost something." He eased back a bit and replaced his sunglasses, but kept the blinds parted slightly.

Dot groaned. "Ugh, he's really looking for me? Why can't he just leave me alone?" Her parents had always taught her to sit up straight, especially when she was a guest, but she slumped a little in the beige man's antique chair.

"Don't you worry about him," he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. "He'll be gone shortly, and my friend and I will call you a cab. I'd offer for Crowley to give you a lift, but I don't think it's a very good idea."

The skinny man - Crowley - turned to give his friend an offended look, his mouth opened to protest. But the other man barrelled along, giving Crowley a pointed look of his own. "He drives like an absolute demon, I'm afraid."

Crowley's mouth snapped shut. Dot actually found herself stifling a laugh at the expression on his face. Then he huffed and went back to watching the road.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Cocoa? I've got a kettle of hot water on in the kitchen.* I'm afraid I don't make very good coffee, but I have got a coffee machine for Crowley's sake, if you'd like that."

*This statement, unbeknownst to Dot, was accompanied by a quick and frivolous miracle.

"Crowley really makes a very good cup of coffee, though I don't often drink it myself; caffeine wreaks havoc on my nerves," the man was rambling.

"Me too," Dot said, partly to stop him, and partly because it was true. "It makes my anxiety way worse." She wondered why she'd decided to share that personal detail with a stranger.

That stranger was nodding sympathetically. "Cocoa then? That's my preference, usually."

"Yes," Dot said, absently. She was thrown by this entire situation. "Yes, that would be nice."

"Of course," said the man, and bustled out of the room.

There was a moment of silence. Dot thought it felt awkward, but also felt that it wasn't awkward for Crowley, who was still glued to the window.

"Sorry," she said, haltingly, after the awkwardness had stretched as far as she could stand. "Your name was -- Crowley?"

"Yep," said the man, popping the word between his lips like bubblegum. She expected him to elaborate on whether that was his last or first name, but he didn't. She tried to think of something else to say. "Is this your shop?"

Crowley paused his lookout to arch an eyebrow at her. "Do I look like I run a bookshop?"

She shrugged. "I suppose you could do anything."

Crowley gave her a look that was half surprised and half impressed. "The shop's Aziraphale's," he explained, "I just come here to drink."

"To drink?"

"You'd be more surprised if you saw his liquor cabinet."

Dot glanced the way the other man had gone. Then another thought occurred to her. "Sorry, did you say-- Azira--" she stumbled on the strange word.

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeated, as Aziraphale reappeared with two steaming mugs of cocoa.

"Yes?" He asked.

"He's fallen in a puddle."

"What?" said Dot and Aziraphale together.

"The wanker who followed you," Crowley said. "Shoelace was untied.* He tripped when he tried to cross the road. He's completely soaked. Bruised his knees and skinned his hands too."

*This, too, was accomplished via frivolous miracle, albeit a demonic one.

Aziraphale was eyeing Crowley suspiciously, but Dot didn't have time to wonder about that, because she was gaping. "He did?"

"Oh yes," he confirmed, and Dot, after deliberating for a split second, bolted to the door to see. She tucked herself in below Crowley, half-elbowing him out of the way, only vaguely aware that this was no way to act around strangers.

"Oh, that's definitely him," she said, unable to keep back a grin. "And a bird's just shat on him," she added.

The skinny man must have done something cheeky, because she heard an exasperated, "Really, Crowley," and when she turned around, Crowley had directed a dazzling, shit-eating grin back at Aziraphale, who was trying and failing not to smile back.

It took them a moment to remember there was someone else in the room, then Aziraphale started. "Oh! Your cocoa, young lady." He held the mug out and Dot took it gratefully, sinking back into the chair. Aziraphale pulled another chair over -- where did these chairs keep coming from? -- and sat down as well. "I added some whipped cream and sprinkles," he explained, wiggling his shoulders as he settled into the chair. "The sprinkles are completely pointless, but they look rather charming, don't you think?"

Dot glanced at the rainbow bits scattered across her whipped cream and took a tentative sip. Crowley made a face. _ "Rainbow fucking sprinkles?" _he hissed at Aziraphale.

"Crowley, there's really no call for that kind of language." The two of them carried on as Dot sipped her drink, in hushed but rather useless whispers, as she could hear everything they were saying.

Not that it mattered, since she wasn't overhearing a particularly important conversation. In fact, they seemed to be arguing about nothing.

For instance, Crowley was rolling his eyes. "Rainbow sprinkles and bloody… miracle whip," he muttered again, putting a decidedly mocking spin on the word 'miracle'.

"Miracle Whip is mayonnaise, dearest, not whipped cream," Aziraphale said dryly.

Crowley snorted. "We've been over this, Angel. They're completely different."

Aziraphale groaned. "Crowley, we're not discussing this now."

"They're not!" Crowley hissed back. "Mayo's got more egg fat in it."

"Ugh, _ Crowley." _ Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not this again."

"That's why all the commercials, they say, 'buy Miracle Whip it's healthier less fat' and everything. It _ has _ got less fat, but they replace it with sugar. 'S no better for you, but it tastes sweeter. We're very good at marketing downstairs, you know."

Aziraphale was staring at him, aghast. "Crowley, do you mean to tell me you invented--" he stopped himself and both men looked stricken. Dot thought it wise to study the now-melting whipped cream in her mug. She took a louder than necessary sip as their heads swiveled towards her. Aziraphale laughed nervously and cleared his throat.

"So sorry, dear, we're, ah… easily distracted."

"Hmm?" Dot feigned, as if she hadn't heard everything. The conversation had been mystifying (what had Crowley invented? Mayonnaise? Miracle Whip? Marketing? What on earth was Aziraphale talking about?) and not, she thought, significant in any way, but she didn't really want to get in the middle of a lovers' spat, even if it was just about sandwich toppings. "Oh, I, um, I was lost in thought. The cocoa's very good. You ought to sell it."

"What?" The two men blurted it out in unison.

"You know, every bookshop's got a coffee shop nowadays," Dot explained (anything to steer the conversation away from mayonnaise).

"They have?" Aziraphale echoed.

"They have," Crowley confirmed. "You know, Starbucks."*

*Crowley had given a trio of rather clever humans the idea for Starbucks forty-eight years ago and it had been irritating opinionated people and gouging everyone else ever since. He'd also been, for forty-eight years, waiting for the perfect opportunity to mention this to Aziraphale, who would most certainly love a chocolate chip frappuccino. As annoyed as Crowley was, he had to thank Crisis Girl for finally giving him an excuse to take the angel to Starbucks.

"What's a starbuck?" Aziraphale asked him.

"Coffee shop," Crowley said, gesturing loosely towards Dot. "She just said."

"Yes but… what precisely _ is _ a starbuck? Has it got anything to do with Moby Dick?"

_ "Moby Dick?" _Crowley was blustering, incredulous. "How on earth have you got Moby Dick out of that?"

"It's the name of the first mate."

"What." Crowley's voice was flat.

"The first mate in Moby Dick. His name's Starbuck."

"Is it really?" Dot was learning all sorts of fun facts today. Meanwhile, Crowley was gaping at his… friend? Boyfriend? Husband? She didn't know, and didn't know how to ask without sounding terribly nosy.

"But of course. But never mind that, what was it you were saying about the cocoa?"

"I was saying you should sell it. You'd get loads more customers, I bet."

Aziraphale's friendly expression froze; at least, all but his right eye, which was twitching. So were Crowley's lips. "Ooh yes, Angel, more customers, just what you need."

Something dangerous flashed in Aziraphale's eyes, though his smile remained plastered on.

Crowley's face split into a proper smile. "I could help you with marketing. Devilishly clever with marketing, me."

"No!" Aziraphale said, rather too loudly. "Er, I mean. No, thank you, I'm quite content the way things are. Besides, I'm too… ah, far too _ old _ to be starting anything new like that. But thank you for the compliment, my dear, I'm so happy you like it. Are you feeling any better?"

Dot blinked down at her mug, surprised to see how near empty it was. How long had she been here? "Oh, yes, actually. I feel much better." She was struck suddenly by how this day had turned out. The man on the street had been dreadful. She hadn't told these two what he'd said, but he really had been. She couldn't believe she'd wondered if she was overreacting at first. But these two had been lovely and kind. Well, Aziraphale had been kind. But Crowley had watched the door for her and seemingly enjoyed the bird poo incident as much as Dot herself, and that was… not exactly kindness, but it had helped nonetheless. And then they'd sat with her and had an argument about mayonnaise, not bothering her with personal questions, not forcing her to make conversation; they'd just sat and given her cocoa and let her collect herself.

"Oh wonderful," Aziraphale was beaming at her again. "I'm so glad to hear it. Do you think you're ready for a taxi, or do you need another moment?"

"Oh no, I've already taken up so much of your time--"

"Not at all, child, take your time." Dot noticed that now it was Crowley's smile that was frozen, and his eye that was twitching. She could see the muscle of his cheek jumping beneath the dark glasses.

"No, really, I can't thank you enough. I was having the _ worst _morning, and you've been so nice, and--" Dot trailed off, lost for words.

"Of course, dear girl, of course. Crowley, why don't you call this nice young lady a cab with that _ application _ on your phone?"

"Just app, Aziraphale, for heaven's sake," Crowley said, then blanched like he'd tasted something unpleasant.

"Oh no, I'd really rather take the bus," Dot protested. "The Uber driver might be Creepy Guy's brother or something."

Aziraphale looked aghast. "Quite so, my dear. Well, then we'll walk you to the bus stop."

"Oh will we?" That was Crowley, sounding like a petulant child.

"Of course we will. You won't encounter a bit of trouble with us."

Crowley snorted.

Aziraphale gathered himself, ignoring Crowley in favour of rambling. "Of course an escort shouldn't be necessary at all, but that seems to be the way of the world, unfortunately. It all seems rather inclined to evil some days." He sighed sadly, then held out an elbow. Dot found herself linking her own arm around it. "Well, Crowley, are you coming?"

"Can we finally go for lunch afterwards?"

"Of course, dear."

"I'm starved."

"You're nothing of the sort. Now come along or wait for me here."

Crowley heaved a noisy sigh and pried himself out of his chair. When had he sat down? Where had the third chair come from? Dot didn't know. "I suppose I'll come," he said, as if he were agreeing to hack off a limb.

Aziraphale was beaming again, but at Crowley this time, and Dot could see why Crowley called him 'angel'. It was practically blinding. "Perfect," Aziraphale enthused, as if they were going to the Ritz.

Every other human seemed to give them a wide berth as they meandered the short two blocks to the bus stop,* and when they arrived, the stop itself was deserted.

*The distinction of this being a demonic or angelic miracle was decidedly unclear.

Aziraphale glanced at a nearby sign. "Your bus should be along in just a moment."

Crowley scoffed, "like you'd know," and peered at the sign too. Aziraphale was giving him an offended yet smug look. "All right, fine, so you're right this time," Crowley admitted, "but I'm not forgetting when I had to pick you up at Canary Wharf last week 'cause you got off at the wrong stop."

"Honestly, Crowley, that was one time. I've been taking the bus for years."

"And you managed to get to Canary Wharf by accident. You had to board other buses!"

"I was reading! It wasn't my fault!"

Crowley snorted so loudly Dot thought it must have hurt.

"I really don't know why you keep fussing over it. Anyway, you weren't busy, and you got to drive your silly car, so I don't see how it was at all inconvenient for you. He's got an old Bentley," Aziraphale added to Dot, who hadn't the faintest idea what a Bentley was, beyond its simply being a car, "and he's _ extremely _ attached to it."

"It's a good car," Crowley interjected.

Dot found herself smiling, and then suddenly, inexplicably, she heard herself say, "I love you two."

Crowley recoiled. Aziraphale blinked.

Dot's eyes went wide. "Uh, I mean-- I just mean. You're lovely, you know? You've been lovely to me and you're lovely together and -- well, I just hope I have that with someone someday."

An awkward silence arose. Aziraphale stammered a mostly incoherent thank you, and Crowley stood there working his mouth like a beached fish.

"Oh look! The bus!" Aziraphale was beaming and laughing nervously again.

Dot looked round, saw the bus, looked at the two men, and felt panicked again, but not in a bad way this time. She felt she ought to do more to say thank you, but she didn't know how and she didn't have much time.

And then, suddenly, as clear as day, she heard a woman's voice. "You have a Starbucks card." 

Dot jolted. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Crowley asked, finally getting his voice working again.

"I thought I heard a woman-- oh never mind. Here," she started rummaging in her purse. "I know I've got it here somewhere, and well, I know we both agreed we shouldn't drink coffee, but really there's hardly any coffee at all in the frappucinos--" she yanked the card out of her purse with a flutter of empty candy wrappers and a stray movie ticket.

"Chocolate chip," said the same woman from before, but this time Dot didn't have time to question who it was.* The bus was screeching up behind her with a squeal of brakes and the creaking of metal.

*Were she religious, she might have questioned whether it was the voice of God, but she wasn't. That fact didn't usually make God laugh, but today it did a little, if only for irony's sake.

"--Personally I like the chocolate chip ones," she continued on hurriedly, "but they have cocoa too." She thrust the card into Aziraphale's hand, who looked at it bemusedly.

"Er, it's very nice," he began, "but--"

The bus doors opened. Dot glanced back at them. "Anyway, thank you again, for everything." She flashed the two of them a beaming smile of her own and boarded with a flurry. The bus waited a few moments and other passengers trickled on. Dot wondered when and where they'd come from, since the bus stop had been so empty, but didn't worry too much about it. She was distracted by craning her neck to see out the window.

Aziraphale was turning the card over in his hands while Crowley talked. Dot thought he must be explaining what a 'gift card' was (if the man had never heard of Starbucks, he may well never have heard of gift cards either). Then the bus lurched and they were off. Dot watched the two men until she couldn't see them anymore, waving at them as she passed (Aziraphale waved back. Crowley's hands were jammed into his too-small pockets), and just as they were disappearing from sight, she saw them link arms and walk off together. She smiled to herself and sunk into her seat.

***

"You mean to say there's money in this?" Aziraphale asked dubiously, still turning the green and white card over in his hands.

"It's not _ in _the card," Crowley said, somewhat at a loss as to how he was going to explain this one. "It just sort of… takes the place of money."

"Oh? And how much money is it worth?"

"Well, however much someone's put on it. You know, it's all computers and programming what-have-you. Someone says, 'I'd like ten quid on this please' and the person puts it in the scanner thingy and the computer programs it to have ten quid."

"So it's computerized money?"

"Ehhhh, yeah, I s'pose."

"That's ridiculous."

"How come?"

"Well it isn't real, is it? A computer can't _ make _ money, that's illegal."

"In this case it's perfectly legal."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"So this isn't some elaborate trick to get me to break the law using fake computer money?"

"No, Angel, for the love of-- " Crowley cut himself off. "Well. It's not a trick. When have I ever tricked you?"

"Hm." Aziraphale said. Unfortunately, Crowley was right about that. "Well, all right, we'll use it. But I still don't trust it."

Hooo-ee, thought Crowley. He wondered what, if anything, Aziraphale knew about credit cards. He decided not to mention it, though. He didn't want to be blamed for the Great Slump again.*

*It wasn't his fault. It really wasn't. He'd divided the late 20s between driving the Bentley, sleeping, and replaying the 1883 argument with Aziraphale over in his head. He hadn't had the time or emotional clarity to orchestrate a catastrophic economic collapse.

"You never answered my question from before," Aziraphale said, finally slipping the Starbucks card into his pocket.

"What question?"

"Did you invent Miracle Whip?"

"Miracle--" Crowley spluttered. It took him a moment to dial back to the last nonsense they'd argued about. "Yes, actually. Helped with Starbucks, too, for that matter."

"Oh, _ really,_ Crowley."

"I did! I told you, I'm very good at capitalism, even if your lot did invent it."

Aziraphale was offended. "We didn't invent capitalism!"

"Well we certainly didn't."

"I suppose it was another one of those things humans did all on their own with no help from your demonic influence, hmm?"

"Angel, I've merely been helping it along. I didn't _ start _ it."

"Whatever you say, dear."

It was Crowley's turn to be offended, but the stomach he didn't need growled noisily.

"Oh dear, we're quite late for lunch," Aziraphale said, by way of apology.

"Yes, well, if you _will_ adopt every Sally Sob-story who wanders into the shop."

"Oh, me? You're the one who decided to send the poor girl's assailant into a puddle. Not to say he didn't deserve it, of course, but--"

"I didn't! I only untied his shoe. The puddle was his own fault."

"And the bird poo?"

_ "That _was to keep myself entertained while you were playing at Mother Teresa."

"Still, it was a very nice thing to do."

Crowley made a growling sort of sound. "I just wanted to get on with going for lunch. The faster she felt better, the sooner that would happen. And besides, he was a rotter, and then I made his day worse, so he'll continue on being awful to people and making _their day_ worse too. It was all really quite evil."

"Ah, I see," said Aziraphale, though Crowley somehow missed the smile in his voice. "How very… subtle of you."

"I keep telling you, Angel, I'm incredible at this." Crowley spread his hands expansively, grinning as they neared the Bentley and made their way round to the doors.

"Indeed," Aziraphale agreed, and this time Crowley caught the sarcasm. He scowled.

"So," he said, "what do you say to sushi, and then after we'll try one of those drinks Frappuccino Girl mentioned."

"At Starbucks?" Aziraphale was still saying the name like it was a foreign language.

"At Starbucks," Crowley confirmed.

"What _is_ a Frappuccino, exactly?"

"Oh, a sort of drink. It's mostly ice and cream and sugar with a drop of coffee thrown in. You'll like it, I promise. And there's all sorts of flavors. Chocolate chip, strawberry, vanilla bean, s'mores, pumpkin spice, I could go on and on."

"Well. It does sound rather lovely. And you invented this?"

"Well, I… gave them the idea. You know, a drink made almost entirely of ice and then people pay a ridiculous amount for it. It's absolute robbery."

Aziraphale said nothing. They drove quietly for a few moments but for Crowley's stereo which was playing one of his songs about the Queen again.*

*It always seemed to be, Aziraphale thought, or at least that's what Crowley had told him, though he wasn't sure what fat-bottomed girls or old-fashioned lover boys had to do with the Queen.

Some time later, Aziraphale was slurping happily on a chocolate chip frappuccino while Crowley watched.

"Do you suppose the baking's good here?" The angel asked, eyeing the lemon loaf in the display case.

"No," Crowley said bluntly, "but I'm sure that won't stop you."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "So let me get this straight," he said, "you invented this Starbucks place--"

"I prefer to say _inspired."_

"--which just so happens to serve the only sort of coffee I've ever enjoyed, and serves all sorts of baked goods, which I also enjoy--

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "It's just a coincidence, Angel."

"Oh, is it? Well, today you've also helped rescue a young woman in distress--"

"You did the rescuing."

"Very well, wreaked vengeance on behalf of a young woman in distress--"

"For my own entertainment."

"You can pretend all you like, but you're really quite nice--"

Crowley made a sort of yelp and shoved his chair backwards with a rather loud squeak. Several other patrons of the coffee shop looked over at him in alarm. "All right, all right. No need to list everything for the whole blessed world to hear."

"I'm sorry, dear, I didn't mean to embarrass you," Aziraphale said soothingly, though he certainly had, a little bit. "I'm just trying to say I appreciate you."

Some part of Crowley's brain stopped working. His chair scraped backwards again as he rocketed to his feet. "All right, shut up, I'll get you the lemon loaf if you promise to stop talking."

"Oh really?" Aziraphale might have said something else, but Crowley was already halfway to the counter, where he stood in line fuming. Or at least, he was trying to fume. He made the mistake of looking over at Aziraphale, who was beaming his 8000-watt smile at Crowley over the top of his frappuccino.

He whirled to face the back of the person in front of him and avoid Aziraphale, but as he stared at the tweed jacket before him, he couldn't help but marvel at how neatly things had fitted together today. Sure, lunch was late, but thanks to the girl, Dot, he'd finally gotten the opportunity to mention Starbucks to Aziraphale, not that he ever planned to admit the angel had a hand in bringing the restaurant about. She'd even given them the Starbucks card, which meant they'd absolutely _ had _ to go. The fact that they didn't need money was irrelevant -- Aziraphale had to show his appreciation for the gift by using it, even if he'd never see the girl again. It was all really quite perfect.

A little too perfect.

With a start, Crowley remembered Dot's question at the bus stop. She'd heard something. A woman's voice, she'd been about to say.

Crowley shuddered. He tried not to think of the Almighty. Sure, she existed. She was omnipresent, omniscient, blah blah blah. He was aware of that. He'd even known her, in heaven, though that was a long time ago. It wasn't as if they still _ talked _or anything. But every so often, usually when he was with Aziraphale, he got the impression he was being watched.

He knew, of course, that he _was, _because she was always watching, at least when he was on earth, but most of the time he didn't feel it. Most of the time he could forget about it. But not when he was with Aziraphale. At least, not at times like this. Not when it seemed, suspiciously, as if Someone were out there, moving the pieces of an great invisible chessboard. Oh, She didn't move _Crowley _herself. He wasn't even sure She was moving the little figure of Aziraphale. But She seemed to shove pieces and people in his way that tumbled him headlong down a certain path, and then he'd find himself on his arse at the bottom of it (usually sitting next to Aziraphale, also on his arse), wondering what had happened and how he'd got there. He crossed his arms surreptitiously as he waited in line.

_ All right, _ he thought irritably. _ So you orchestrated a few events to get us here. That doesn't mean we're on speaking terms. _

That they were, in fact, speaking (or at least he was), was not lost on him and did not improve matters.

But when he returned to the table, cake in hand, Aziraphale smiled at him and scooched his chair closer as Crowley sat down. This was dangerous, Crowley thought. The "oh, _thank_ you dear" and the soft kiss pressed to his cheek that made Crowley's brain short-circuit again only confirmed this.

"All right, all right," Crowley said. Barring that small blip during Armageddon, it was the first time he'd spoken out loud to the Almighty in years. "You've got me."

Aziraphale, who, of course, had no idea Crowley wasn't talking to him, placed a gentle hand atop his.

"Of course, dearest, and you've got me."

**Author's Note:**

> some of the useless information i (and you) now know bc i had to google it while writing this:  
\- the difference between miracle whip and mayonnaise  
\- when starbucks was invented  
\- who invented starbucks  
\- where the name starbucks comes from
> 
> also not sure if miracle whip is a thing over the pond but to paraphrase john mulaney, once that was written it had to stay in the story forever. (also not sure if starbucks is a thing over there tbh)


End file.
